


He'd been Late

by maliciousfisheeves



Category: Bloodborne (Video Game)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-05
Updated: 2016-04-05
Packaged: 2018-05-31 12:29:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6470023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliciousfisheeves/pseuds/maliciousfisheeves
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Henryk arrives late on the night of the hunt, and it drives him mad.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He'd been Late

        Henryk made his way swiftly, down the muddied streets, feeling his heart race.

 

        He was late; He’d left late, then he’d gotten preoccupied by beasts. He’d dealt with them, but he was late nonetheless. It was as though fate was against him that night, but there was a sliver of hope that perhaps Gascoigne was late as well.

 

        When he stopped in front of the house, it was silent. He had figured that everyone would be in bed (He had been late after all), but something felt a bit off as he travelled away from the home; that it was almost too quiet, that it was missing something.

 

He’d have to check back later, just in case. Cemetery first. Gascoigne wasn’t going to be happy with him.

 

 

        He didn’t plan on dropping off the ledge into the cemetery, but after seeing the large beast sprawled out on the other side of the graveyard, he’d figured he’d try and get a better angle on it. Crows were not the only beasts that played dead (as he’d learned on particular night, only saved because Gascoigne investigated further and nearly got a hand torn off)

 

However, when he’d dropped down the ledge, he found his heart broken in two.

 

Miss Viola’s corpse laid awkwardly, like she’d gotten thrown onto her back by great force. Her face was still frozen in shock, eyes wide but empty. So cold, staring forward a million miles to nowhere. Blood ran from her mouth and stained her dress due to a huge gouge in her abdomen. Something was missing; her brooch.

 

It wasn’t as though all the blood could have masked it, could it have? And how had Gascoigne not seen her? Wouldn’t he have tried to… stop…?

 

        Henryk felt the fear twist in his gut, clawing terribly at his mind. He felt as thoughts were fraying at the edges, desperate energy jolting in his arms for a moment.

 

Who would covet such a thing from her? Where was the music box? Who would do such a thing to Miss Viola?

 

He jumped from the ledge, feeling his fraying thoughts turn towards the beast. Had it done this to her? Who had? **_Who?_**

****

        The anger boiling in his blood made it harder and harder to think clearly. Gascoigne would have called him back, before. That was how they had worked for a while; it was easier to tell when someone else was starting to forget, starting to let assumptions gather and whip one of the other into a fury.

        He was going to tear the beast to bits if it was the last thing he’d do. He’d have its damned head! And if it were already dead… he didn’t bother to think about that. Perhaps he’d still tear it to bits.

 

But, as he approached the beast, realization donned on him, like some horrible sunrise.

Gascoigne.

 

 

Henryk felt himself shaking, just a bit, as all the terrible, horrible, wretched actions that night fell upon him. He could almost imagine it; Viola, wandering out on such a bad night looking for her husband, and then he killed her. He killed her, as a beast, right? No, no that couldn’t be right. The giant, horrible gape in her chest was a cut, not a claw.

 

No, no. **_No._**

****

Who had taken the brooch, had someone taken the music box too? Miss Viola was careful. She wouldn’t forget, not on such a bad night like this.

 

        He heard himself hiss, growl. Felt his face twist into a snarl as his emotions became too great, like a great tidal wave and the lesser half of him was a battered coast. He felt his heart ache so terribly, feeling guilt weigh so heavily he feel could hardly stand. If only he hadn’t been late, if only…

 

        It overwhelmed him, a sort of animalistic feeling, a sort of feeling that made him feel hot but cold all over, a sort of burning feeling as the muscles in his chest tightened and his vision turned red like blood. He was enraged; at himself, at others, at no one.

 

But this undirected anger could not last, and as a familiar face approached, he felt himself directing more and more of it onto her.

 

Eileen.

 

 

Henryk saw the music box briefly, as Eileen came to stop him. Another hunter, a younger one, newer one, arrived quickly, breathing hard. He heard the jangle of its inner-workings, could nearly smell the blood on it, and felt the rage flare in his mind like white fire. He could not care that Eileen and the hunter were trying to tear him to bits, or that perhaps Eileen was not at fault, but no.

The jangle of the music box signified to him that this night was a collection of actions, that this night could have been avoided, perhaps. Perhaps on some other night this wouldn’t have happened but no, the music box’s rattled whispers told him.

It was her fault, hadn’t it? She had known, she _had_ to have known. She could have told him, she could have told Viola. She could have stopped Viola, right?

 

And the hunter, that damned **_hunter._**

 

        They had looted that damn music box off Viola’s corpse or gotten it some other way, hadn’t they?! And they used Gascoigne’s destitute state of mind to torture the poor beast of a man further, **_hadn’t they?!_** Had he been fumbling, drowning in his own accursed blood whilst they tugged at the vaguest strings of his mind? Tying the noose around his neck tighter?

 

Had they killed Viola?

 

Had they known, about Gascoigne, and decided that they would get that music box from Viola whether she liked it or not; it was a cut, who said it had to be Gascoigne’s axe, right? Right? Viola would never leave without it, right?

 

        It didn’t matter. He was losing. He was old, and tired, and as his strength waned and his rage did not, he felt his faculties slipping into darkness and silence without any words at all. They, the damned hunter, stared at him with wide eyes the entire time.

He didn’t know if he screamed or snarled again when he last opened his mouth, or if he simply wheezed out an angry growl and died.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Its very short! Once again I wanted to write some stuff, and here it is.


End file.
